A Matter of Perspective
by KingOrokos
Summary: 'Twenty four faces. It's not a matter of heroes and villains, of predators and prey, of victors and victims. It's just a matter of perspective. Everyone wants to survive, but only one of us can.' The 67th Annual Hunger Games has begun. Ongoing series.
1. I Can't Protect You

**A Matter of Perspective: **

**The 67th Annual Hunger Games  
**

_By Alex Smith_

**A/N: Just so everyone knows, this isn't a SYOT (Submit Your Own Tribute) story. As much as I enjoy SYOTs, I also like being free to create my own characters and storylines, and as this is my first piece of Hunger Games fanfiction, I thought I was better off sticking to the latter style of story. **_  
_

Chapter 1:

I Can't Protect You**  
**

* * *

**District 1 – Jade's POV**

'I volunteer.' It's a simple enough sentence, but around here it means so much. It means you're willing to sacrifice everything for a shot at power and glory and fame. It means you're strong enough to take down twenty-three other competitors and confident enough to tell the world about it. It means you're fearless, it means you're ready for anything, and on this particular occasion, it means you're me.

The girls around me all turn and glance my way. None of them look surprised; I've been preparing for this moment for a long time, and I haven't exactly been quiet about it. Slowly, a ripple of murmuring voices spreads through the crowd, the throng of people surrounding me, the entire population of District 1. From atop the gleaming stage, a man with dyed orange hair turns and looks at me, a grin plastered over his face.

'How exciting – a volunteer!' he cries, though he must be faking the excitement because this is no different from any other year. There are always volunteers, sometimes more than one for each slot, dozens of people fighting for two tribute spaces, two chances to be victors; the greatest honour anybody can receive, to be a champion of the Hunger Games.

This year, though, there are no more volunteers. I've made sure of that, by going round and 'having a friendly chat' with the other contenders. We've been training our whole lives for this, but nobody's trained harder than me. I deserve this the most, and I was hardly going to let that stuck-up Sapphire try and take my rightful place on that stage.

I try to catch Sapphire's eye as I walk through the crowd, up towards the stage. I can't see her from ground level, but as I ascend the staircase I spot her, fuming silently in the front row. I flash her a smile, and move on.

The small, scrawny girl who was reaped starts to thank me as I pass her on the stage, but I brush past, nearly knocking her over. I don't have time for children like her, even worse than Sapphire; the kids who don't _want_ the power and riches that the Games bring. They make me feel sick, almost. She stumbles off of the stage, down the stairs, and I lose sight of her in the masses of people.

'Now then, miss,' says my district's escort, the orange-haired man. 'Why not tell us your name?'

'Jade,' I reply, giving my best beaming smile. He laughs, and several members of the crowd cheer. 'Jade Carnelia.'

'Well then, Jade Carnelia, congratulations! You've just become the very first tribute in the 67th Annual Hunger Games!'

* * *

**District 8 – Guff's POV**

Everyone turns to look at me when my name gets called out, but there's only one person who's reaction I'm studying. An old woman, with withered skin and a face that could have been carved from a tree trunk. She sees me, locks eyes with me, and in that moment, her face falls. I see the last vestiges of hope leave her, and I know why. I've as good as killed her grand-daughter.

Azalea is stood on the stage, waiting for me to join her, my fellow tribute. I've never spoken to her, but I see her often, running through the streets, her hair filled with pink ribbons. This is her first year of reaping; she's only twelve years old. She's wearing those pink ribbons today, fluttering in the wind gently. Her name was only in the glass ball once, but still she was chosen. Nobody volunteered to replace her – loyalty, friendship, courage, only goes so far when it comes to the Games. Her only hope was a strong male tribute, someone selected to protect her in the arena. Instead, she gets me.

I walk with a limp as I amble towards the stage. Everybody's looking at me. If someone able-bodied had been reaped, they could have taken care of her, made sure she wasn't hurt, sacrificed themselves to let her live as victor. But someone able-bodied wasn't reaped. I was. The boy with one arm.

When I was thirteen, four years ago now, my father took me into the factory where he worked. We specialise in textiles in District 8, and this particular factory was for heat-dyeing. It's a relatively new process, but very quickly it's become more and more prominent in the factories around where I live, as Capitol fashions change constantly and new clothes need to be produced at an alarming rate.

The heat-dye vats are pretty simple things, really. Clothes made of white fabric are dipped into the vat by an automated rail system, where the clothes hang from steel pegs that go down into the massive steel barrels, pull back up again, then move along to another area of the factory to dry. The vats are filled with dyes of all different colours, depending on whatever's in vogue with the Capitol this or that week. The thing that sets them apart from the other dyeing factories is that the dyes are heated up to something like 130 degrees Celsius, with means the vats are literally bubbling and starting to turn to steam. I'm not quite sure how the science of it all fits together, but apparently it means that the clothes and fully and completely dyed in less than a minute. Something about the way the dye reacts with the fabric at certain temperatures.

I was an idiot when I was thirteen. While my dad's back was turned, I decided it would be funny to sneak a few of my friends in through a loose panel in the far wall of the building. They all thought it was hilarious, hiding from the elderly Peacekeeper who oversaw everything, loitering around the backs of the vats, talking about trivial things like schoolwork and ball games. At one point, one of my little gang pulled out a small rubber ball from his jacket pocket and started springing it off of the side of one of the vats, letting it jump back into his awaiting hands. As he grew more confident, the ball went higher and higher up the side of the vat, until eventually he was bouncing it against the rim at the top of the vat and letting it fall back down to the ground.

Then I decided to take control, since I was pretty confident that I had the best throwing arm. I snatched the ball on its return descent, ignoring my friend's protests, and hurled it upwards at the vat. I overshot myself, and the ball went over the rim; I thought for a moment I had lost the ball, dropped it into the searing hot dye. But then I saw it clang into the automated rail that hung clothes over the vats, and to my surprise it wedged itself in between two pieces of metal that made up the rail.

The four or five boys with me all laughed at my good fortune, except for the boy who's ball I had taken, who looked a little surly. To placate him, I agreed to get his ball back for him, since it was my fault it was up there. The vat's sides were smooth, but the wall of the factory was not; there were plenty of rims and ledges where the metal of the wall had been joined by unsteady hands, a long time ago, and I was able to make footholds out of many of them. I was a good climber, and I must have scaled the wall in five minutes, if not less. None of the factory workers noticed me, and the Peacekeeper was nowhere in sight; probably snuck out back to smoke his foul cigar. I clambered from the side of the building onto the edge of the vat; it wasn't as hot as I expected it to be, perhaps because whatever metal the vats were made of didn't conduct heat so well. I shimmied round the edge until I got to where the rail was, and started looking for the ball, taking hold of a curved metal joint on the rail that formed a useful handhold.

Then everything seemed to happen at once.

In retrospect, it seems pretty obvious that the automated rail would have been about to move along. I had been watching it move up, down and across the factory ceiling for hours that day, so as I reached out for the ball I should have realised that my handhold was going to slip away from me. All I can remember is a sudden, lurching feeling in my stomach as the rail started to move, and then a white hot flare of agony as my arm dipped into the boiling dye and began to burn.

I was told, after I woke up in the District 8 hospital, that I had somehow managed to cling on to the rail as it moved away from me, so that I didn't fall completely into the dye. Instead, only my left arm and left leg were submerged in the scalding liquid. The other workers at the factory have since told me that my father moved like a lightning bolt as soon as he heard my scream. To this day, I find it hard to believe that a middle-aged man with a pot belly was able to climb the wall beside the vat in less than half the time it took me, and pull me single-handedly to safety. But that, so they tell me, is exactly how it happened. At the time, all I was conscious of was the blazing heat raging inside my arm and leg.

Looking on the bright side, they managed to save my leg. I still have deep black scars running down the length of it, and I walk with a heavy limp, but I still have it. My arm was not so fortunate. My burns quickly became infected, and the doctors told me that it was either amputation or death.

Every so often, I still wake up coated in sweat, from nightmares of falling into the dye and never surfacing again, consigned to burn for eternity. If my screams wake him up, then sometimes my dad comes in to try and settle me down. He sits at the edge of my bed and says things like 'don't dismiss yourself' and 'you can still achieve whatever you want to achieve.'

I wonder what he's thinking now.

I look up as I walk onto the stage, try to find him in the audience. But he must be stood near the back somewhere, because I don't recognise him amongst the multitude of faces below me. Azalea turns to me as I stand next to her. Her lip is quivering. She looks like she's about to burst into tears.

_I can't protect you, _I think. _But that doesn't mean I'm not going to try. _

* * *

**A/N: Thank you very much for taking the time to read the first chapter of my story. I've been working on this for quite some time, and it's my first story here that isn't a one-shot. I very much hope you'll stick with me as I continue to update and write new chapters. As the title and summary suggest, we'll be following the Games from every tribute's perspective at some point, so expect future chapters to introduce you to more of this year's unlucky contestants. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn't, please consider leaving a review letting me know why you liked or didn't like it. If you're considering staying with Jade, Guff and the rest of the tributes for the 67th Games, why not add this story to your story alerts, so you'll know as soon as it's updated? Updates will probably be weekly, perhaps slightly more regular than that, depending on how busy I am in coming weeks (it's currently exam time for me, so I might be very busy). Anyway, that's enough rambling from me. Thanks once again for your time, and have a nice day.**

**-Alex**


	2. The Odds Are Against Us

**A Matter of Perspective:**

**The 67th Annual Hunger Games  
**

_By Alex Smith_**  
**

Chapter 2

The Odds Are Against Us

* * *

**District 6 – Esther's POV**

'Wake up,' says the voice.

'_You_ wake up,' I retaliate clumsily, turning over in my bed sheets. I try to swaddle myself deeper into the warm fabric, but someone pulls my duvet off of me and grabs me by the shoulders.

'Esther. Wake. Up. Now.'

'Ugh, fine,' I mumble, rolling off of the mattress and onto the hard wooden floor. The figure standing over me offers me a hand, and with its assistance I pull myself to my feet.

'Come on, we're late already. The reaping starts any minute,' my older sister, Myrtle, intones sternly. I shrug.

'What's the point?' I'm still half-asleep, and most of what I say is probably incoherent. Myrtle whacks me over the head and I stumble slightly.

'Alright, alright, I'm getting ready, look at me, getting ready...'

Twenty minutes later I'm out the door. Myrtle's wearing one of her favourite dresses, a lovely green swathe of fabric that circles down around her legs, showing off her figure wonderfully. I don't look half as impressive in my dirty, torn, baggy trousers and muddy jacket. When I point out the difference, she raises her eyebrows.

'That's because _I've_ never spent four days lying in a forest in this dress.'

'Well, we can't all be free and adventurous like me,' I shoot back, though she has a point – I'm a big fan of wandering out into the trees underneath the railroad and spending a couple of days at a time slacking off, living off of the land, spending time with the peace and quiet. As much as I enjoy talking, it's nice to be able to stay silent sometimes.

We walk together through the narrow roads of District 6. Tall, rickety buildings teeter ominously overhead, looming down as they sway slightly on their foundations. The original buildings were squat, sturdy, single-storey bungalows made from tough metal, but over time as the district's population swelled, more and more of the houses had extra levels or floors installed on top of them, built using whatever materials were handy at the time. The higher up you look, the more unsafe and ramshackle the buildings look. On the very top floors, three of four storeys high, they are little more than tents pinned down to the level below with steel pegs.

From behind one row of wobbly skyscrapers, a cheery voice echoes into the street.

'...the reading of the treaty of treason is complete, we'll move right along to the picking of the names! Isn't this exciting?'

'We're late,' Myrtle hisses at me, quickening her steps to a dignified stride. I jog lazily alongside her, deliberately scuffing my already battered shoes against the stone path as I go.

We round the corner to find ourselves in the central square, the exact midpoint of the district, where all of the major announcements and ceremonies – such as today's reaping – take place. Usually it's quite an open space, but today it's overflowing with people, lined up in anticipation. On the far side of the clearing, the high-speed rail is clearly visible, standing tall over the forests that surround us. One of the most prominent industries in District 6 is the manufacture of new trains, so almost the entire western side of the town is taken up with train yards and the like.

On a huge rectangular podium, at the opposite end of the clearing to Myrtle and me, stands our district's escort, an endlessly happy man named Cornelius. His distinctive incandescent green coat is the same as always; it's a similar shade to Myrtle' dress, but while she wears the colour with subtlety and class, he looks overly-flamboyant and completely ridiculous. Nonetheless, the similarity is the perfect excuse for some A-grade teasing.

'You better hope you don't get reaped,' I whisper to Myrtle. 'You and Corny are going to clash outfits on stage.'

She punches my arm. 'Watch it,' she mutters darkly, while Cornelius makes a show of pulling a slip of paper from the glass bowl. 'Or you'll wish you'd been sent into the arena.'

I laugh quietly. 'With a right jab like that, you'd be bowling tributes over left right and centre,' I chuckle. Myrtle doesn't reply. Her mouth is a thin line, and her heart shaped face has drained of colour. Her green eyes, usually full of malevolence and mischief, are wide with what looks like... Fear?

'Myrtle? Myrtle, are you okay?' I ask, concerned. From behind me, a joyful voice booms out of the speakers, repeating the words I hadn't heard the first time round over my own laughter.

'Esther Hassah? I'm saying that right, aren't I? Esther, are you out there? Come up, darling, it's your time to shine!'

I turn around, very slowly. One by one, every head in the square swivels to face us.

Joke's on me.

* * *

**District 3 – Sallie's POV**

I don't quite believe this is happening. When she called out my name, I thought I might have been dreaming, but no, I'm one half of District 3's tributes for the Games this year. I'm dead already. I don't stand a chance against the Careers; the big, hulking figures who band together and comb the arenas, looking for survivors to kill. The only weapon I know how to use is a crossbow – my mum takes me hunting, from time to time, and it's her weapon of choice – but the chances of finding one of those in the arena are tiny. And even if I do get my hands on one, what use will it be against a six foot five gorilla with a mace, swinging straight for me?

'Cyrus Milstein!' cries the ridiculous looking woman purporting to be our escort. The crowd mumble amongst themselves as always, but nobody raises their hand.

'Cyrus? Come out, come out... Don't be shy, sweetie!'

A small figure stumbles into the awaiting arms of the Peacekeepers. They form a square around him as he walks up towards the stage. His wide eyes are flickering all over the place; he looks as though he might try and make a break for it at any second. His skin has the pale tinge to it that working in the factories can give you, but I've never seen him at any of the plants. Where, then, has he acquired that sun-starved shade of pink skin?

He climbs the stairs slowly, looking anxiously back at the Peacekeepers watching him from the bottom of the stage. Up close, everything about him suggests fear. His mop of brown hair is limp, his eyes are jumpy, his fingers twitching in and out of his pockets. He has the look of a cornered animal on his face. I smile at him, to try to put him at ease. His gaze fixes on me for a minute, and he smiles back weakly. Then his eyes return to their wandering, jumping this way and that in their sockets. I wonder if he's always like this, or if the terror of the reaping has made him jumpy and distracted.

_I need to stop thinking like this_, I tell myself. In the arena, he'll be an enemy, just like all of the others. He'll be trying to kill me, just like all of the others. And even if he isn't, he'll probably be dead before the first day is out. There's no point thinking about him, considering his past, when I'll have to either kill him or watch him die in less than a month.

'Now, why don't you two lovelies shake hands for the camera, yes?' our escort asks us. Her name escapes me; something beginning with a H, I think. I turn to face Cyrus, who snaps back into reality in time to take my hand in his. He has a surprisingly firm handshake, and his hands feel soft and delicate to the touch. He's definitely not an ordinary factory worker.

_Stop it!_ The voice in my head reprimands me. _Stop complimenting your rival's hands!_

I half-smile. My present situation is so utterly ridiculous, it would be funny if my life didn't hang in the balance.

* * *

**District 12 – Ragull's POV**

Every year since I've been old enough to watch, there's been one thing Caesar Flickerman always likes to ask the tributes while he's interviewing them; how did you feel when your name was read out? Everybody gives a different answer. Some kids say excited, some say nervous or scared, some just stare at him blankly. A couple of the crazier Careers have even said happy, once or twice. But right now, there's only one thought running through my head, and it isn't fear or happiness or excitement or any of those.

_It's my birthday, _I repeat numbly to myself. I'm thirteen today.

District 12's escort is a grumpy, sour old man named Makolai. He used to work with one of the more prestigious, better-off districts – 1, I think – but a couple of years back he disgraced himself, live on national television, by reaping a nineteen year old girl. Her name had been entered by mistake, an administrative error on his part, and the incident sent the crowd at the reaping into a state of frenzied uproar. After the Peacekeepers had calmed everybody down (including the near-hysterical girl), the entire ceremony had to be postponed while the names of all those eligible for reaping were re-entered correctly. Rather than just fire Makolai, the Capitol decided to punish him by putting him to work here, in the shoddiest district in all of Panem. He's yet to get over it, and remains bitter and unhelpful to this day.

'So, you're the latest batch of hopefuls,' he says snidely as I step up onto the stage. 'Bloody wonderful. I'm sure Mr. Abernathy would be delighted to see you, if he had bothered to turn up.'

I look around. Sure enough, Haymitch is conspicuous in his absence. As District 12's only living victor, he's supposed to be our mentor during the pre-game period. He also happens to be a raging alcoholic, who's actions during the reaping ceremonies over the past fifteen years or so have grown increasingly erratic. But I don't think he's ever actually _missed_ a reaping before.

I turn back to face forwards, and a smile catches my eye. Mallura Adler. My fellow tribute. She's grinning at me. It's not the challenging smirk you sometimes see older tributes exchange – the kind that says _you'll be my first victim _– it's a sincere smile. I try to return it as best I can, but my heart's just not in it. I'm still numb towards my own inevitable death, but I feel a surge of sorrow blossom in my chest as I consider her fate. She won't stand a chance in the arena. She's built like a mouse, tiny and slim, with a pointed face and pale blonde hair. She'll be the Careers' first target, and I'm almost certain she has no idea how to handle a weapon; she'll be dead in minutes.

As I smile, her lips part to form a word. She mouths something at me, four syllables, turning her head in such a way that the cameras trained on us won't catch it.

_Happy birthday._

I blink suddenly, disorientated. Why would she say that? Apart from my family and a few very close friends, nobody has congratulated me today – it isn't a time for celebration, on reaping day. I search her eyes for cruel intention, but I find only goodwill. She isn't mocking my bad fortune, she's just genuinely trying to make me feel a little better. I smile back again, and this time I mean it.

Makolai steps forward between us, bowing his head to the audience and giving them a full view of his rapidly receding hairline.

'Well, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it. Mallura Adler and Ragull Brownwood. A fine turnout for this year's Games, eh?' He giggles darkly. 'Now, happy Hunger Games everyone – and may the odds be ever in your favour!'

With that, he turns and shuffles off of the stage, leaving me to stand with Mallura as the anthem of Panem starts to play through the speakers. We stand, staring out into the crowd, and I realise that I'm not wondering _if_ I'll die – I'm wondering _how_. It's only a matter of time, after all. The odds are against us.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Although normally I won't be updating daily, I wanted to post this one today so I could pose a question to any readers out there - do you think the current chapter length is about right, or should each chapter be longer? I'm not too sure whether to keep them as they are, or to post them in larger chunks. All feedback, good or bad, is very much appreciated. Thanks.**

**-Alex  
**


	3. One Hour

**A Matter of Perspective:**

**The 67th Annual Hunger Games  
**

_By Alex Smith_**  
**

Chapter 3

One Hour

* * *

**District 11 – Moa's POV**

'Close friends and relatives are allotted one hour to say their goodbyes,' the Peacekeeper tells me, as if I don't know. There's not a soul in Panem who doesn't understand how the Games work, from the moment of the reaping to the victory tours. I reply to him with a blank stare, and he leaves the room. I have only the company of myself.

The Justice Building is an alien place to me. I can't quite wrap my head around how the Capitol can afford to decorate every room with thick carpets and intricate, delicate works of art, while most of District 11 are in the later stages of starvation. As a worker in the Mayor's personal orchard, I've never had it too badly myself, but there are at least a dozen people on my street alone who have to go every other day without food. How can the Capitol let that happen when the chair I'm currently sitting on has cushions made of velvet? How can they not share their riches with the people who need it so desperately here?

The door swings open, and I look up expecting to see the Peacekeeper – but it's my mother, of all people. She looks like she's been crying; her eyes are red.

'Mum-'

'You can win this.'

What? I pause, taken aback. I was expecting tears and emotional outbursts, not confidence, or support, or _hope_. Since when has my mother been one for hoping?

She sits down on the silky couch at the centre of the room, facing me. Even with watery eyes, she's still a hundred times more beautiful than I am. She has the same dark hair as me, but mine falls limp while hers frizzes out uncontrollably, like a thunderstorm in motion. It makes her look like she's crackling with energy, even when she sits down or sleeps. Her skin is the same deep brown as mine, but hers is softer and smoother. At once, we are similar and nothing alike.

'You... You think I can win?'

'You know how to use a mace,' she says, speaking quickly and softly. Any sadness that might have coloured her tone earlier is gone now. She's all business, using what time we have left together to help me out as best she can. 'You've got a lot of muscle on you. You can climb, you can swim, you can wrestle.'

'There are tributes who've been preparing for this their whole lives.'

'You don't need to prepare! Every skill you need to survive in the arena, you already have. You know which plants will save your life and which will end it, you've got a strong throwing arm – what will they be able to do that you can't?'

I consider her words for a moment. As I think about it, I begin to realise that some of what she's saying rings home. I spend so much of my time in the orchard, I can climb a tree faster than most of them will be able to. Heavy labour in the fields has given me strong arms, a good build for fighting. I often have to separate poisonous berries from edible ones when we're picking them in the fields, so I know enough to find food in the arena. And I _do_ know how to use a mace; years ago, before my dad died, he taught me how to swing one. Not because he thought I might need the skill, just because it was his way of spending time with me, training me to use a lethal weapon. I frown at my mother slightly, not quite daring to agree with her.

'So maybe... Maybe I do have a chance.'

'That's what I'm saying,' she presses. 'Don't give up on yourself so easily, Moa. It'll be a tough fight, but you can win it. I believe in you.'

I wasn't expecting this at all. My mother's usually the one who breaks down into hysterics at the slightest provocation, the one standing on the worktop shrieking when a spider crawls across the kitchen floor. Where did this determined, powerful woman spring from?

'Now, let's talk about your interview strategy,' she begins, interlacing her fingers as she sits back on the couch. I almost smile. Who would have thought she'd be the one helping me strategise, plan my course of attack?

'Moa?'

I blink, realising I've been lost in my thoughts.

'Sorry. Drifting,' I mutter. She frowns.

'You only get one shot at this. And we've only got one hour. So, _concentrate_, and listen to what I have to say.'

* * *

**District 3 – Cyrus' POV**

As the Peacekeeper closes the door, the lights flicker and then burst into life automatically. It's a fascinating piece of engineering. I can't see from my chair where the lights are placed – they don't appear to be in the ceiling, and the only lamps in the room are purely ornamental – so they must have been strategically distributed throughout the opulent space for maximum efficiency, so that the bright beams of fake sunlight fill up every corner, making the room feel as warm as a summer's day.

_I'm going to die._

I stand from my chair, peering around inquisitively. I run my gaze over every surface, searching for one of the bulbs. It only takes me a couple of seconds to find it. Embedded in a small indent, barely noticeable, between two tall wooden cabinets stood against the left wall. The way that it angles out means that the light can stream out in any direction, but I have to tilt my head in a very certain, precise manner to see the source properly.

_I'm going to die._

I use my hands to brace myself, curling them into the cranny that the bulb sits inside. With my palms holding some of my weight, I lean precariously forwards until I can see the bulb. It's a small, square block of glass, that radiates light only in a certain direction; presumably to make it more energy efficient, as the side of the block facing into the wall wouldn't be much use even if it did shine as brightly as the other lights.

_I'm going to die._

'Stop it,' I whisper. The room suddenly seems very quiet. 'Stop that, now.'

For a few moments, I can hear absolutely nothing. I have no idea if the walls are soundproof or not, but it feels like it. Not a single hum or hiss reaches my ears. Seconds pass. Then-

_I'm going to die._

'Stop it!' I shout, jumping back from the nook in the wall where the lightbulb sits. 'Stop thinking that!'

I hold my hands over my ears, twisting my hair between my fingers, my eyes scrunched closed. I crash down on the luxurious couch at the room's centre and begin to rock gently, back and forth, back and forth.

'Stop, stop, stop thinking...'

But I can't stop. As much as I try, as much as I distract myself and occupy my mind elsewhere, four words keep drifting, unwanted, into my mind. Stark, harsh words, and worst of all, words that I know are true. Because there's no question of it, really. I wouldn't last sixty seconds in the arena. Even if I was the only tribute there, I'd probably find some way of winding up dead. With twenty three others, all of them wanting me killed, I won't even last long enough to think up some clever last words. Even Sallie, the nice girl who shook my hand on the stage, smiled at me, needs me dead if she wants to stay alive. There's so little time left before, like an ominous prophecy, the whisper inside my head stops being paranoia and becomes reality.

The door opens sharply, and I look up, wondering if my family have arrived to wish me luck (_useless_) and make me promise to come home safely (_lie), _and say goodbye (_for the last time)_. But no, it isn't them. It's the Peacekeeper. He's frowning slightly.

'You okay in here, kid?' he asks. The walls aren't soundproof, then. He must have heard me shouting.

'Yeah,' I say, a little breathlessly. 'Yeah, I'm fantastic. Utterly brilliant. Great.'

The Peacekeeper's frown deepens. Perhaps he's mistaken my flat tone for deadpan sarcasm, and thinks I'm mocking him. He stares searchingly at me for a minute or so, then slams the door shut again, a little harder than is necessary, leaving me alone to wait for visitors.

Except I'm not alone, because there's someone humming behind me, someone whispering at my ear, someone clawing at the insides of my skull, muttering behind my eyes. Four words.

_I'm going to die._

* * *

**District 9 – Stave's POV**

'You've got...' he checks his watch, 'Eight minutes left. Got it?'

I nod, and the Peacekeeper leaves, leaving me alone with my brother again. My brother. Weeve. I stare at him, peering silently into his eyes. We're almost identical, even though we're two years apart. We share the same deep blue eyes, the same ashy skin. His hair and mine are identical in colour and texture, black and straight, though his is cut slightly shorter. Our faces are even shaped the same, so it feels uncannily like I'm looking into a mirror. Then the reflection distorts, as he tilts his head to one side, looking at me curiously. We are the same. Except we're not, because he was reaped for the Hunger Games, and I wasn't.

'Say something, Stave,' he mumbles. I avert my gaze. We've been here for the best part of an hour, but it's the first thing either of us has said.

'Stave,' he repeats, when I remain silent. 'Talk to me.'

'It should be me going into that arena,' I say. He shakes his head softly.

'It shouldn't. This is my burden to carry.'

'But I should be able to help you!' I cry, throwing my arms up in exasperation. This whole situation is so unfair. So cruel. Whoever gave the Capitol the right to tear families apart like this?

'There's nothing you can do,' Weeve says, in the quiet, gentle manner he has, that I have grown so familiar with. And he's right; I really am powerless here. I wanted to volunteer, to replace him when he was reaped, but even that is outside my capabilities. I'm nineteen; too old to participate in the Games. All I can do is sit back and watch my younger brother die, watch his murder broadcast live to every soul in Panem.

We lapse back into silence. Five minutes left, until the Peacekeepers come and take my brother away from me. I feel a desperate urge to say something, a last goodbye, but nothing comes. My throat feels choked, as if a vice has been tightened round it. The sense of powerlessness enveloping me is almost palpable. It makes me want to vomit.

I look up, at Weeve. He seems so consigned to his fate. He has always been this way, calm and easy-going, never wishing to quarrel. He's such a peaceful boy, an oddity amongst the rowdy teenagers he has fallen in with. He's no fighter; though he possesses the same lean, muscular figure that I do, he simply isn't inclined towards violence. He doesn't derive any pleasure from fighting or hunting, he never has. It's the sort of mentality that equals a death sentence in the arena.

He rests his head in his hands, and I do the same. We often copy each other's movements, mostly without realising it. People sometimes mistake us for twins, and confuse us for one another – though he is seventeen, two years my junior, we really do look identical. I think we share a bond, the kind of friendship only brothers can have, one that keeps us so close that we appear as two halves of the same whole. Would it make much difference, really, if I walked into that arena instead? The outcome would be similar, that much is for certain. Neither of us would stand a chance.

An idea forms in my mind. Suddenly, unexpectedly. I breathe in sharply, as a new stream of consciousness starts to flow through my head.

_We're almost identical-_

_The quiet, gentle manner he has, that I have grown so familiar with-_

_People sometimes mistake us for twins, and confuse us for one another-_

_Would it make much difference, really, if I walked into that arena instead?_

'Weeve.' He looks up at me.

'What?'

'I have an idea.'

I spring into action, standing from my chair and pulling him up by the shoulder to join me. I examine him closely, peering at his hair, the exact cut of it. Then, without hesitation, I reach for the hunting knife at my belt. Weeve takes a half-step back when he sees it, eyeing me nervously.

'What are you doing, Stave?'

I carefully begin to shear away my hair at the back of my head, cutting it short by just a few inches, making sure to keep hold of the loose hairs. After every chop, I pocket the sheared-off pieces, shoving them roughly into my thick, coarse trousers.

'Stave, I don't-'

'Hsssh!' I hiss at him. 'They'll be back any minute! Take off your shirt, quickly.'

'I- Wait, what?'

I look him in the eye, the last of my hair sliced loose. With my new haircut, we must look exactly alike each other. His eyes widen slightly as he realises this, but he doesn't move to unbutton his top.

'Weeve, we need to hurry, take your shirt off, now.'

'I... I don't understand.'

'I'm going to replace you,' I snap, as I pull my own shirt over my head. 'I'm going to trade places with you. You are going to be Stave, and I am going to be Weeve. Got it?'

He splutters, trying to comprehend the full implications of what I'm suggesting. Someone knocks on the door, sharply.

'Two minutes, you two.'

'Quick!' I urge him, as he stares at me like a fish on dry land. When I realise he still isn't moving, I take him by the shoulders, and press my forehead against his.

'You are me now,' I whisper. 'We're going to swap lives. I'll fight in your place. It'll be our secret. Okay?'

'Stave, I-'

'No.' I interrupt him sternly. 'I've made my decision. I'll go to the Games, you stay here and look after everyone at home.'

What I am doing right now is definitely illegal and probably treasonous. But I'm going to do it anyway, because I'm not so powerless anymore. I can save my brother's life. If that means sacrificing my own, then so be it.

* * *

**District 5 – Darrick's POV**

I don't know what to say. My mouth feels as dry as sawdust. I almost want to cry, but I know that no tears will come; my body appears to have shut down completely, running on automatic while my mind is isolated, cutting itself off from reality in an attempt to deny the undeniable.

'Rick?'

I can barely meet my older brother's eyes. Klavin. He's sixteen, three years older than me and infinitely wiser. I'd trust him with my life. As that thought enters my head, I realise numbly that he won't be around to protect me when I need him the most. It's not his fault, it's just the way of things.

'Rick. Caleb brought something for you.'

I look up again. Caleb, my other sibling; he turns twelve in a few weeks. Next year, he'll be eligible for reaping. I should be horrified for him, but all I can think about is how I probably won't live to see that twelfth birthday of his. He peeks round from behind Klavin's back, where he's been hiding for the past few minutes. Now, he shuffles forward cautiously, clutching something tightly between his small palms.

'You can – you can take something with you,' he begins, a little nervously. He's obviously thought a lot about this, whatever it is. 'You're allowed to have a... Um...'

'Token,' Klavin interjects. 'A district token.'

'Yeah!' Caleb's face lights up. 'A token!'

He holds out his hand, and clenched between his fingers I catch a glimmer of gold, a flash of light reflected back at me.

'What have you got there?' I ask him. It's only when I say it that I realise I haven't spoken since I was reaped. My throat feels sore. He looks at my slyly.

'It's a medal,' he says, not without a hint of pride in his voice. I take it from him, turn it over in my own hands. It's a tiny thing, a circular disk of metal not wider than the palm of my hand, covered in tiny dents and scratches. It appears to be made of gold, though I know it can't possibly be; very few families in District 5 can afford to keep gold instead of selling it, and ours certainly isn't one of that privileged group. I ponder instead what kind of metal it is made of, and what sort of paint the maker used that allowed it to retain so much of its natural shine. The engraving on it is very small, but it's still possible to make out the figure standing tall, a proud man wielding a bat in one hand, curling a ball in his other. Klavin won it, a couple of years ago I think, in a sports event at school.

I look at my elder brother first, who inclines his head slightly. He's happy for me to take it. Then I turn my attention to Caleb, who is beaming from ear to ear. I pat his shoulder with as much bravado as I can muster.

'I love it,' I say, trying my best to smile. 'I'll wear it with pride.'

To illustrate the point, I take the raggedy piece of string tied to the top and sling it around my neck. The medal hangs just beneath the collar of my shirt. Caleb's smile intensifies tenfold, and he pulls me into a hug. I lift him slightly off of the ground, and he giggles.

'Rick,' he says, very seriously, when I put him down again. He has the stern face of a child trying to make an adult's point. 'I want you to promise me something.'

'Okay, little man,' I say. I'm feeling drained, and extremely tired all of a sudden.

'When you win, will you make a big speech about me?' He nods to himself. 'Because, everyone will have to listen to you, so you can tell them all how cool I am.'

My throat clenches. 'I might not get to make a speech,' I manage to choke out. He looks at me strangely.

'Nuh-uh, everyone who wins gets to make a speech,' Caleb says. I look at him, not speaking, for a few seconds. Then, I say the only thing I really can say.

'I promise, Caleb. I promise.'

I see Klavin regarding me silently, as he always does, from over my younger brother's shoulder. I don't know if it's the look he's giving me, or that I've made a promise to Caleb I know I can't keep, but suddenly my body unfreezes, and now I finally feel hot tears starting to mist at the edges of my eyes.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, and please consider leaving a review letting me know what you thought. Thank you!**

**-Alex  
**


	4. Cattle

**A Matter of Perspective:**

**The 67th Annual Hunger Games  
**

_By Alex Smith_**  
**

Chapter 4

Cattle

* * *

**District 2 – Myra's POV**

'Now – let's talk about sword work.'

I recline back in my chair, doing my best to look at ease. My mother – a tall, muscular, imposing woman – stands over me, hands on her hips, with an expectant look on her face.

'I said, let's discuss your sword skills.'

I nod, and straighten up. 'Well, it's my strongest weapon. I know how to use it and I know how fight against one,' I recite, like a child reading from a schoolbook. My mother looks at me, her stern face curled into an expression of permanent disapproval.

'You know how to fight with a sword, against a sword. Can you fight with a sword against somebody using an axe? Or a mace? Or a spear?'

I nod. Swords are my speciality; I've been training with them for years now. My mother is a former victor in the Games; she volunteered when she was eighteen, and came home to the respect and admiration of everybody in the district. Ever since I was born (an only child), she's wanted to raise me to be as strong a fighter as she is. The Hunger Games, I think, are her final test for me. The last hurdle before she accepts that I'm a warrior, just like she is.

She was the one who encouraged me to volunteer now, on my last year of reaping. Her influence as a former victor means nobody challenged my request; none of the other hopeful Careers could volunteer over me, while she was held in such high regard by the people of District 2. After all of these years of being taught how to fight, how to survive, it's rather unsettling to be so close to the big finale; the thing I've been training for.

'If your opponent has a knife, keep your distance,' I start. 'Make sure to stay out of their blade's reach. If they have an axe, feint one way, then move around their strike and hit them from the other side while their guard is down. If they have a mace, keep on your toes and stick to jabs rather than swings. If they use a spear-'

'Alright, that's enough,' she interrupts me. 'Now, on the off-chance that you don't get your hands on a sword, what weapon are you going to pick up?'

Do I know the answer to this one? My mind's gone blank. 'Er... A knife. Because the principles are roughly the same...'

I can tell I've given the wrong answer from the fire blaring in her eyes. 'No! No, no, _no_. You can't swing a knife like you can a sword. If you can't get to a sword, pick up a club, or a streamlined axe. Something long, light weight, with a damaging implement on the end. Those are the sorts of weapons that favour your fighting style. Got it?'

I try to look appropriately sheepish as I nod. 'So I should get a club?'

'Yes. Like the one that Drayton always uses.'

I shudder involuntarily. Drayton is District 2's other tribute, a strong, bulky boy with a shaven head and mean, calculating eyes. Even by Career standards, he's one of the deadliest, most ruthless people I've ever met. He smiled at me at the reaping, but I wasn't sure what he meant by it. He could intend to form an alliance, or he might just be taunting me before he gets ready to cave in my skull.

'Right,' I mutter. 'Like the one Drayton uses.'

Just then, a Peacekeeper opens the door and walks into the room. His sterile white uniform contrasts harshly with the elegantly decorated innards of the Justice Building. He opens his mouth to speak, then looks at my mother strangely.

'I thought mentoring only began after the allotted hour for goodbyes,' he says. My mother smiles icily.

'I'm not here as her mentor, I'm here as her mother.' She says it in a syrupy sweet voice, but behind her cheerful tone I can detect just the faintest hint of her cold anger, the collected fury that she might unleash at any moment, if the man continues to irritate her. The Peacekeeper looks away and coughs quietly; then he turns back, looking slightly sheepish.

'My apologies. Anyway, I came here to tell you that your hour is up,' he says directly to me. I nod in acknowledgement, and rise from my chair.

'Let's go, then,' I say, trying my best to walk with confidence. My mother joins me at my side, and we follow the Peacekeeper out of the door. The corridors of the Justice Building are just as decadent as the room we were just in, with deep fluffy carpets, and exquisite paintings hanging around every corner.

I feel a prickling sense of unease rise in my stomach. I try to keep my outward expression as calm as possible, but inside I feel nauseous, as if I might pass out. My palms are sweating a little, and breathing seems faintly constricted. I recognise the feeling; fear.

I maintain my composure, making sure my mother doesn't pick up on my apprehension. I know she'd be on me like a vulture if I acted like anything less than a calm, collected killer. Why am I scared? I'm supposed to be one of the strong ones. The Careers. The tributes people bet money on and cheer for. Fear isn't meant to be part of my M.O. I volunteered for this, and I wouldn't have done that if I wasn't confident in my own abilities.

But here's the thing. I'm not. I'm not confident in my own strength at all. In fact, I'm almost certain I'm going to die in these Games.

In volunteering, I might as well have been signing my own death warrant.

* * *

**District 10 – Brosnan's POV**

I sit very still as the car trundles on through the narrow lanes of the district. As we pass by the livestock enclosures, I see the herds of cattle looking up from their grazing to watch serenely as I pass by. They live their entire lives inside those pens, waiting for the day when one of the farmhands takes them to the slaughterhouse to be butchered. There's no warning of when that day might come, but once it does they have no chance of escape. Their deaths are inevitable and unavoidable.

I feel like one of the cattle now.

To my left sits Lazby, District 10's most recent victor. He won the Games eight or nine years ago, and has been responsible for mentoring the tributes ever since. I was only a few years old at the time, but the details of his Games have been etched into my mind by older folk, who still talk about it in the fields and on the farms, where there is little else to discuss. His arena was a dry, barren landscape, with little water, and many dangerous creatures such as predatory reptiles and venomous snakes. He won due to the survival knowledge he had assimilated from year after year of herding livestock from one end of the district's pastures to the other. He managed to find water by following the paths of the animals living in the arena – figuring that they, just like him, needed a clean drinking source of some sort to survive – and successfully healed a snake bite he had sustained by mashing together the leaves of several different shrubs and bushes he found dotted across the landscape. Years of treating to the injuries and wounds of animals had given him a rough, but effective, knowledge of how to treat himself, and he had managed to outlast the other tributes, who either killed each other or died from thirst, or exposure.

To my right is my district escort, a joyful young woman named Lisbeth. It's her first year on the job, and while she tries to project a constant image of enthusiasm, I can tell she was hoping for a better district than this one. She has ridiculously blonde hair, that falls in intricate curls around her shoulders. She looks like Lazby's polar opposite; he's dressed in simple, practical clothes and has the look of a strong, sturdy labourer, while she wears an extravagant yellow blazer with a matching skirt, and looks like she's never worked a day's hard work in her life.

For a while, we ride in silence, until Lazby decides to break it.

'So, kid,' he says. His voice is slightly hoarse, but his tone doesn't waver as he speaks, reflecting his outward confidence. 'We need to start talking strategy.'

'Alright,' I nod. I've always been told that I'm softly spoken, but Lazby doesn't seem to have a problem hearing me. He smiles wryly.

'Well, I'd say you don't look like much of a weapons expert, so the first thing we're going to have to do is figure out what sort of tool you're going to arm yourself with. Slim build like yours, I would suggest a cutlass or a scimitar-'

'No.' I interrupt him. He looks at me strangely.

'Right, okay, so if not one of those, have you considered learning how to fire a bow and arrow?'

'No,' I say again. 'I don't want a weapon.'

This time, he doesn't try to hide his look of bewilderment. 'Kid, I hate to break it to you, but there's no way you'll get anywhere fighting with your bare hands.'

'I don't mind. I'm not planning on fighting.'

Lisbeth – who's attention had previously been occupied entirely by her small pocket mirror, which she was using to touch up her lipstick – joins Lazby in giving me an utterly uncomprehending stare.

'But you have to fight!' she says, in a tone that suggests I've offended her. 'It's kill or be killed!'

'Then I'll be killed,' I murmur. She opens her mouth to say something more, but Lazby gives her a look that tells her the conversation is over. She closes her mouth, and we return to travelling in silence.

I'm no match for the other tributes. I can't win the Games, but I can play them by my own rules, on my own terms. I won't become just another cog in the Capitol's machine.

The car rattles to a stop, and Lazby opens his door. I peer out of the window and catch a glimpse of the colossal train, a sleek bullet of silver that will carry us all the way to the city. We've arrived at the station.

_Here I come_, I think. _I may not be a victor. But at least I'll still be me._

* * *

**District 4 – Ashua's POV**

I arrive at the train station to find it swarming with photographers. The chauffeur who drove me here nods curtly, pulls the car door closed, and drives away, leaving me stranded in a sea of eager paparazzi. I've been separated from my escort and fellow tribute; apparently the Capitol wanted us to arrive individually at the station, so the press have a chance to get some solo photos. I'm not too bothered by the cameras, though I am slightly irked at being left by my escort; Sebastian, the suave gentlemen who acts as escort for District 4, chose instead to accompany my fellow tribute, Tidhar.

I hear the squeal of tires as a car pulls to a stop nearby. The photographers stop grappling with each other to get a better look at me, and start fighting to reach the source of the sound instead. I shove through the crowd, with rather less restraint than the Capitol journalists around me, and manage to reach the front of the crowd in time to see Tidhar flash a grin at the mob of cameras. I stride forward to join him, and Sebastian – who's just climbing out of the car – raises his hand in greeting.

'Ashua!' he says, in a deep, velvety voice. 'Ready to go?'

I nod, and Sebastian ushers us past the paparazzi to the doors of the train. Tidhar waves a hand, indicating that I climb onboard before him, and I step through the doors into the finest, most expensive form of transportation that Panem can offer.

'Hey, this is pretty swish,' Tidhar says. It's a bit of an understatement.

The interior of the train is one of the most magnificent things I've ever seen. The Justice Building, back in the heart of District 4, was a luxurious place, but it pales in comparison to this. The walls of the carriage are sleek and curved, a subtle shade of silver that suggests elegance and sophistication. At one end of the train is a wide, circular table made from gleaming wood, with sparkling cutlery, polished and gleaming, set out neatly across its surface. At the other end, low couches and chairs with plump purple cushions have been spread out in a wide semicircle around a massive, flat-screen television. Back at home, all we've ever had is a tinny, black and white box, that could barely be classed as a TV at all. This, in comparison, looks like a miniature version of the huge screens that are set up for the reapings, so that everyone in the district can see what's happening. I'm awestruck by it all. Then I hear Tidhar chuckling behind me as he steps into the carriage, and I rearrange my features into a practised look of indifference.

'It's not bad,' I mutter. Tidhar slumps over one of the couches, taking up the entire thing by spreading his lanky frame across it. It's easy to see why Sebastian stuck with him, after the reaping; his spiky dark hair, tanned skin and sea-blue eyes are almost certain to make him an instant hit with the Capitol. His smile is what sticks out the most, though. He grins like a shark, showing a perfect row of slightly pointed white teeth. Sebastian was quick to jump on that after the reapings – 'Ladies and gentlemen, the fishing district has caught itself a great white!' – and I'm sure he'll be using that very same smile to grab himself sponsors by the dozen in the arena. He vaguely reminds me of Finnick Odair, District 4's most recent victor; he has the same self-assured attitude and confident posture.

Speaking of Finnick, where is he? I turn to Sebastian, who stands casually by the huge dinner table at the other end of the train.

'Where's our mentor?' I ask him. He frowns for a moment, then gives me a dazzling grin.

'Oh, Mr. Odair is already at the Capitol. He's been there for the past week or so, on VIP business, so it made no sense for him to catch the train down here, just so he could ride it back up again.'

I frown. 'He's _supposed_ to start mentoring us here.'

At that moment, I feel the floor beneath my feet begin to vibrate slightly. I look up, and the view outside the small, round windows begins to shift sideways as the train sparks into life. The crowds of photographers are left behind, and in an instance we're swept away along the track, as the train rapidly builds up speed.

Tidhar yells excitedly from the other side of the train. The massive TV has flickered into life, and standing in shot is a young Capitol reporter, her hair dyed an extravagant pink.

'_And now, for any of you who missed the initial ceremonies, it's time for our first scheduled repeat of this year's reaping ceremonies. Enjoy, and happy Hunger Games!'_

'Come on!' Tidhar says. 'We need to get a look at the competition.'

I dither on the spot for a moment, then dismiss my worries about Finnick and walk away from Sebastian, picking a seat next to Tidhar's couch. The view on the screen cuts to an overhead shot of District 1. Tidhar is right; we both volunteered for the Games because we intended to win. I might as well know what I'm fighting against.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I'm afraid progress on this story has been a little slow of late, due to other bits and bobs that I've been working on, and the fact that my GCSE exams start next week. Fortunately I have the next chapter already written out, so I should be able to keep the update schedule fairly regular. As always, reviews and favourites are very much appreciated - especially reviews, because I'd love to hear your opinions on what works and what doesn't in the story, or which characters you're particularly fond of. Once again, thank you for reading.**

**-Alex  
**


	5. En Route

**A Matter of Perspective:**

**The 67th Annual Hunger Games  
**

_By Alex Smith_**  
**

Chapter 5

En Route

* * *

**En route from District 2 – Drayton's POV**

I choose the chair at the centre of the train carriage, the one with the best view of the TV, and ease myself into the deep seat. Out of the window, the sharp peaks of District 2's mountains slip away into the horizon, while the even higher crags and steeper cliffs that surround the Capitol loom into view ahead of us. My district is closer to Panem's central ruling force than any of the others, so our journey will be one of the shortest. Nonetheless, there will probably be enough time to catch the entirety of the reapings ceremonies on television before we arrive.

Just as Myra – the scrawny, mousey girl I have unfortunately been allied with as representatives for my district – sits down on the couch propped against the far wall of the train, the TV screen flickers into life, and a smiling announcer beams down at us, introducing everybody watching to the repeat of the ceremonies, for anybody who missed them the first time round for whatever reason.

'Here we go,' I mutter, as the camera pans over the massive square which District 1's reapings took place in.

District 1's escort is an infuriatingly colourful man named Simone. His hair is died bright orange, and his smile sparkles as the sunlight bounces off his bejewelled fake tooth. The crowd are enthusiastic in their applause, as they always are. It takes several minutes for the audience to quieten down for long enough, so that Simone can speak.

'_Thank you, thank you!'_ he cries, which triggers another round of cheering_. 'Ladies and gentlemen of District 1, the 67__th__ Annual Hunger Games begin right here, right now!'_

The audience practically erupts. Hands punch the air, screams echo across the masses of potential tributes and spectators. I shift in my seat, irritated by the drawn-out exuberance of it all. Can't he just hurry up and get on with it?

Eventually, Simone holds up his hands for silence, and the audience's whooping gradually fades away. When everybody is silent, he gestures with one hand, motioning towards an elegant glass ball filled with paper slips to his left.

'_Ladies first,' _he says. There's a slight crackle to his voice, an after-effect of the TV's speakers, but the anticipation in his tone is still obvious. He raises a hand, then dips it carefully into the bowl, swishing the slips of paper to and fro, slowly swirling his fingers through them. Every single member of the audience is holding their breath in anticipation. Then, suddenly, he whips his wrist back, pulling a single name from the thousands.

'_Our female tribute,'_ he calls, _'is Elisa Colfer!'_

Yet more cheering ensues, and I roll my eyes. These people are far too enthusiastic for my liking. I run a hand over my shaven scalp impatiently.

'She wouldn't last five minutes,' says a woman's voice coldly. I look round to see Roseanne, District 2's escort, leaning against the back of my chair, watching as a small, pale girl makes her way up to the stage on the TV.

'She'd be lucky to last five seconds,' agrees Lynne, one of our mentors. A tall, muscular woman, she also happens to be Myra's mother. That's the only reason a thin, physically weak girl like her trained as a Career; under her mother's strict command. I find it amusing that Lynne has so much confidence in her daughter, enough that she encouraged her to volunteer. Lynne won her Games through brute strength, something which Myra obviously lacks. I glance at the scrawny girl on the couch, but her attention is fixed on the TV, and she doesn't catch my eye.

At the reaping, meanwhile, events are unfolding exactly as I thought they would. Elisa Colfer has been shoved aside by a tall, blonde girl who strides confidently onto the stage and introduces herself as Jade. She's definitely confident, and there's a dangerous glint in her eye that annoys me. I feel an urge to wipe the smile off of her face, and am gratified by the thought that, soon, I will be able to do much more than that.

Simone, who is bouncing up and down with excitement at this point, has barely announced the name of the male tribute before a smiling, powerfully built boy raises his hand to volunteer. He joins Jade on the District 1 stage, and when he introduces himself I almost choke.

'His name is _what_?'

'Heliodore,' Myra says quietly. 'His name is Heliodore.'

'The names these folk give their children!' Roseanne cries, throwing her hands up in exasperation. I feel the same way, but keep my composure a little more. On screen, Simone gleefully concludes the ceremony, and the District 1 reaping cuts off with a shot of Jade and Heliodore shaking hands, both smiling, both with a slightly threatening curl on the edges of their lips.

Lynne straightens up slightly, paying more attention, as the seal of District 2 appears on screen. 'This is you guys,' she says, as if we need telling.

The camera pans across the amassed inhabitants of the district, right across to the sturdy stone platform that acts as our stage for the reapings. As the view on the screen slows to a stop, Roseanne walks out onto the stage, wearing her signature dark clothes. In comparison with most of the other escorts, she's very drab and dreary. She doesn't dress to impress, she dresses to intimidate, and the grey attire only adds to her air of steely formidability. I remember standing, amidst that huge crowd of onlookers, only a few hours ago – though it seems like longer – and being struck by a surprising feeling of respect for Roseanne. She's like a pit-bull terrier. She doesn't stand any nonsense, and she lacks the exuberance and the falsified glamour that so many of the Capitol's citizens bring with them.

Slowly, she walks across to the microphone at the front of the stage and taps it, slowly and deliberately. The murmuring in the audience stops, and everyone turns to face her. I wonder if I can spot myself in the crowd, but then the camera cuts to a close up of her speaking.

'_Ladies and gentlemen of District 2,' _she says. _'Welcome, one and all, to the 67__th__ Annual Hunger Games.'_

'My hair looks dreadful,' mutters the real Roseanne from behind me. Her onscreen counterpart, meanwhile, steps away from the microphone as a muted round of applause ripples through the assembled audience. This is how we show our support, not through all of that undignified shouting and cheering, but with reverence.

I zone out a little as the ceremony continues on TV. After all, I was there for the real thing. I watch disinterestedly as the female tribute is called, only for Myra's hand to rise up from near the back. She was out of my view at the time, but with the omnipresent television camera I can see her clearly this time round, a look of determination plastered over her face. And there, just over her shoulder, is Lynne; smirking slightly, proud of her daughter. Once again, I wonder if Lynne realises just how unlikely it is that Myra will return home. With tributes such as myself in the arena, her chances of victory are low. Is it really worth sending off her only child for the slaughter? Just for a shot at the fame and the glory that she has already achieved for herself?

I perk up a little when the male tribute is called, and I see my own hand raise into the air. I watch the people around me as I walk slowly to the stage, trying to gauge their reactions. As my tall, physically imposing figure passes them, they seem to smile confidently. I imagine they're impressed by my strength, and already I can visualise these people betting their money on me to win. I'm pretty much already the obvious victor, aren't I?

Roseanne rounds up the ceremony by making us shake hands. The TV me smirks at Myra as our hands clasp together. I remember vividly what I was thinking at the time; _you're dead meat._

I glance over at Myra, sat on the couch across from me. She's staring at me, but hurriedly looks away as I lock eyes with her. I can't help but smile. I've already successfully intimidated one of the Careers. I'm establishing myself as the alpha tribute from the off, it seems.

I begin to doze slightly as District 3's reaping comes around. Full of weak, underfed factory rats, I can't see either of their tributes posing any threat. The girl, Sallie, seems fairly calm, but her thin frame and raggedy appearance suggests she'll be one of the first to go in the arena. The boy, whose name is Cyrus, isn't as controlled, and looks like he's on the verge of having a panic attack as he gets onto the stage. The whole thing is a rather dreary, unoriginal affair, the same as every District 3 reaping I can remember watching, and I've almost fallen asleep when Roseanne slaps me over the head.

'Wake up,' she intones sharply. 'District 4's up next.'

I sit up a little straighter in my chair. As the last of the Career districts, District 4's reaping is one I need to pay careful attention to. The stage for their reaping is set up on the seafront, and I just catch a glimpse of shimmering waves in the distance before the camera cuts to a close shot of Sebastian, the escort for this district. He's an assured, easy-going man, with smooth dark skin and a dazzling smile. The audience applauds him as he steps up to his microphone and welcomes them all to the reaping.

'_Hello, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. It is a pleasure, and a privilege, to announce that the 67__th __Annual Hunger Games has now begun in earnest!'_

The audience applauds him, but when he holds up a hand for silence they immediately comply. He has a graciously commanding air to him.

The reapings progress in a similar manner to my own. Both tributes are volunteer Careers. The girl is short and stocky, with light brown hair and a small scowl of a mouth. She introduces herself as Ashua, and Sebastian kisses her hand – _'A pleasure to meet you, young lady!'_

The boy comes next. His name is Tidhar, and when he raises his hand to volunteer, the crowd goes wild. It's not difficult to see why; he looks more like a model than a violent killing machine. He has a mess of dark hair that sticks up at wild angles, and his eyes seem to shimmer in the sun. At first, I consider writing him off as an anti-threat, all bark and no bite. Then he smiles, and I see his shark-like teeth.

'_I give you, District 4's tributes!' _Sebastian intones, to the crowd's delight. Ashua and Tidhar shake hands, and the screen cuts to an image of District 5's official seal.

'Six careers,' Lynne says. 'That's unusual. Most of the time there's at least one runt in the litter from 1 or 4. I suppose this means you'll have a pretty strong pack.'

I glance at Myra again. She's focused on the TV screen, still, but she looks slightly unnerved. I don't know about her, but I'm definitely not sure I want to be forming an alliance with these people. Surely, as the strongest of us all, I'd do better on my own? Now isn't the time, I suppose, to be thinking about that sort of thing.

I rise from my chair, and head for the door that leads into the next carriage.

'Where are you off to?' Roseanne asks me. I shrug.

'I was considering going to talk with Enobaria. Discuss some strategies.'

I hear Myra half-heartedly suggest that I stay for the rest of the reapings, but she doesn't stop me as I walk out. There's no point sizing up the rest of this year's tributes. They're all dead weight. A better use of my time would be to talk about some strategies for the Games, and as much as I respect Lynne, I can't help but be sure she'll favour her own daughter over me. I can't risk training with her if there's a risk that she'll give away my secrets so Myra has a better chance of winning. Fortunately, District 2 has had more victors than any other district, so there's a team of four or five previous tributes waiting to help out, should the need arise. Enobaria, my District's most recent victor, seems like a good place to start. She's violent, bloodthirsty, and quite possibly a little bit unhinged. Exactly the sort of mentor I need. Violent and bloodthirsty – that's the only way to win.

* * *

**En route from District 7 – Lavie's POV**

'Lavie?'

None of it seems real. That's the only way to sum up how I'm feeling. I've seen tributes just break down and cry, and I always thought that if I got reaped I'd do exactly the same. But no, I just stood there, silent, frozen. Because it didn't seem real. Even now, as we speed towards the Capitol at two hundred miles an hour, with the last dregs of District 7's redwood forests shrinking behind me, I can't help but feel like this is just a horrific nightmare, and one I'm about to wake up from. Any second now.

'Lavie?'

I snap back into reality to find Mitchell staring at me, concerned. I try to smile to reassure him, but my mouth won't seem to move. Instead, I just nod.

'Sorry. Drifted off.'

He sits back in his seat, still looking at me cautiously. His wide eyes give him a permanent expression of mild shock, but even by his usual standards he looks worried. He's scared for me. Understandably; I'm only fourteen, I'm short for my age, and I've never handled a weapon in my life. I think we're both aware that I don't stand any chance at all. He's worrying for me, but all I can feel is numbness. I'm not scared of my fast approaching death, though I know I should be. What's wrong with me?

'Lavie!'

I jump a little as he snaps his fingers in front of my face.

'Oh, god,' I feel myself blush. 'Sorry, my thoughts ran away from me.'

'Well, you can't keep losing focus like that. This is important. You need to know your enemy.'

I nod, trying to project focus and concentration, and turn to face the huge television stretched across the far wall of our train carriage. They're showing the reapings for District 5, at the moment. Both of the selected kids are about my age. Darrick, the boy, is staring straight ahead, trying to put on a brave face, but I can see him shaking. The girl, Wrenn, is staring as well. Off into space, her gaze resting on the middle distance. Is that what I looked like? Did I freeze up like she did?

They're both very thin, and look a little malnourished. Though Darrick has broad shoulders, there's not much muscle to support them, while Wrenn's pale blonde hair falls around a figure that is little more than skin and bones. Their district escort asks the audience for a round of applause, which doesn't come, and then the two of them shake hands and the screen cuts to District 6's seal.

I glance around the train as the camera shows a few establishing shots of the district. As much as I'm trying to focus on the reapings onscreen, I can't help but slowly drift off into my thoughts. I catch Mitchell's eye, and nod eagerly, to show I'm still paying attention. He gives me a slight smile, then tilts his head back towards the screen.

The reapings from District 6 are painful to watch. The girl, Esther, doesn't realise she's been called at first. The camera cuts to her face, when they call out her name a second time. She's laughing with another girl who closely resembles her, possibly a sister, when she hears them. Her smile drops immediately. Her entire form, from her longish brown hair to her scuffed trousers, seems to wilt slightly, as all of the jubilance and light-heartedness she displayed only seconds ago melts away.

The boy isn't any better, a small kid named Jenson. He's got jet black hair, bowl-cut, and he stares at his feet as he climbs up to the stage. Perhaps he feels self-conscious?

All too soon, it's over. The camera glides over a redwood forest, and I know it's time for District 7's reapings to unfold. For some reason, I'm nervous about watching this, even though I lived through it only earlier today.

'_Ladies and gentlemen,' _says Benedict, our district escort, as he stands at the centre of the stage. _'Welcome to the Annual 67__th__ Hunger Games.' _He's a tall, angular, unsmiling man. He strides over to the glass bowl at his side, and without ceremony, plucks a slip of paper from it. He glances at the name, and reads flatly; _'Lavie Moore.'_

The camera cuts sharply to my face, picked out from the crowd, and I jump a little as I see my own eyes widen in shock. Such a short time ago, and yet it seems like an eternity has passed since then. Oh god, I really did freeze up. It takes me an embarrassingly long time to come to my senses and walk – stumble, more like – up to the stage. Benedict moves onto the boys without pausing to greet or even acknowledge me. He's a humourless man at the best of times, and often borders on rudeness; even at the present, he has left Mitchell and me alone to watch the reapings and retired to his private quarters.

'_Mitchell Hughes.'_

On the TV, Mitchell stands up, walking confidently to the stage. He's my polar opposite, strong and firm and controlled. His mess of shockingly white hair marking him out even from the camera's wide shot angle. As he reaches the stairs that lead up onto the platform, I see him flash me a smile, which I don't return. I just stare at him blankly.

'_Excellent,' _Benedict says, deadpan. _'Another pair of tributes for District 7 selected. Let's move, you two – and may the odds be ever in your favour.'_

He takes us by the shoulder, without even letting us shake hands, and we walk off of the stage, to the Justice Building. That was a long, lonely hour.

'Five districts still to go,' Mitchell reminds me. I nod to him, slowly. He doesn't say anything about our own reaping, though surely he must be thinking something. Probably worrying about me. It's not that I don't appreciate his concern, but he's a tough, well-equipped young man and I'm... Well, I'm just a kid. He stands a chance, I don't. I just wish he'd stop pretending otherwise, stop telling me to focus, stop giving me survival tips or-

Focus.

'I'm paying attention!' I say aloud suddenly. Mitchell jumps in his seat.

'What?'

'I'm...' I trail off, as I realise what I've said. 'Erm... I'm paying attention. Just to let you know.'

Mitchell pauses for a long moment, then grins slightly. 'Yeah, seems like it.'

My cheeks redden, and I turn away to watch the next reaping. My eyes flicker towards the screen, but my mind's already wandering away, ever so slowly, into absence.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! As always, reviews are appreciated, so please consider letting me know what you thought of the chapter. Updates are definitely going to get a bit more irregular now because I'm right in the middle of exam season, but I'll try to keep updating as often as possible. Thanks!**

**-Alex  
**


	6. The Remake Centre

**A Matter of Perspective:**

**The 67th Annual Hunger Games  
**

_By Alex Smith_**  
**

Chapter 6

The Remake Centre

* * *

**En route from District 12 – Mallura's POV**

'Mallura! Wake up!'

I wake to the sound of Ragull pounding his fists against my bedroom door, and almost fall out of bed in shock.

'Ragull!' I shout, more than a little bit cross. 'What are you _doing_?'

'Waking you up!'

'But why?'

'The reapings are on! We need to watch them, hurry up.'

Of course. The broadcast of the reaping ceremonies, played back for all of Panem to enjoy or endure. Since District 12 is the furthest from the Capitol, we had to wait the longest for the reapings to begin on TV. So long that night had fallen by the time they were due to start. Exhausted after the long, tiring day, I had collapsed into bed, only meaning to shut my eyes for a few minutes. Apparently, I overslept.

I quickly get dressed and comb my blonde hair into something that vaguely resembles a style. Makolai sourly suggested earlier that I could pick whatever I wanted from the selection of clothes on the train to wear, so I look for something comfortable. After a couple of minutes rifling through the wardrobe – searching through more expensive and luxurious dresses than I've ever seen in my life – I find something that doesn't look too extravagant. I slip into a pair of simple, smooth dark trousers, and match them with a simple brown blouse. Ready to go, I head out of my compartment and into the narrow corridor that runs down the centre of the train. Ragull is leaning against the wall, tapping his foot impatiently; he starts suddenly as I open the door.

'Come on, they've already started,' he says. He scampers down the carriage, and through the door leading to the next one. I hurry after him, not wanting to waste any more time.

The relaxation compartment of the train is ridiculously opulent. Aside from the sliding door on one wall, which leads out of the train, every wall is plastered with rich, swirling wallpaper that seems to flow across the sides of the carriage. The sleek TV set mounted against one wall is enormous, and the set of low chairs and couches that surround it look extremely comfortable.

Just as I'm starting to enjoy my morning, I see Makolai. The sight of the bitter, balding man, hunched over by the dining table at the other end of the compartment, puts a bit of a damper on the situation. He curls his lip into a sneer, then dismisses me and Ragull as unimportant.

'I don't suppose Haymitch is up yet?' I ask Ragull. He shakes his head, his black ponytail swaying with the motion.

'I don't think he was ever up to start with. He's been asleep every time I've checked on him.' Our mentor, as it turns out, chose reaping day to go on an ambitious drinking binge, and has been sleeping off the consequences ever since. As a prior victor, nobody's going to force him to get up and watch the reapings, so it's just me, Ragull and Makolai in the carriage as the reaping recaps flash across the TV screen.

From the heavy, industrial look of the buildings that surround the town square, onscreen, I guess we're viewing a reaping from one of the more urban districts; either 3, 6 or 8. A bubbly, colourful woman hops over to her microphone and welcomes the crowds around her to District 8's reaping.

'District _what_?' Ragull says, shocked. Then he turns to look at me, a mock look of irritation on his face. 'You slept through seven reapings. Seven!'

I laugh a little, then hang my head sheepishly. 'Sorry,' I say, trying my best to look sincere.

The reapings continue, and very quickly take a turn for the worse. The girl, whose name is Azalea, is younger than either me or Ragull, only twelve years old, and looks even younger. She has such a sweet, innocent face, and as her name is called out I see her lip quiver and drop, her eyes widening in unknowable fear. I can't watch. I peer through my fingers, hands over my eyes. This is so horrible. She climbs very slowly to the stage, a fluttering pink ribbon in her hair.

'_And now for the boys!' _the bubbly escort says, apparently oblivious to the suffering of everyone in the crowd. Though nobody wants to volunteer in her place, the pain in their eyes as they send the tiny girl to her death is plain to see.

A second name is called, and every head pans round to a tall, bulky boy with a thatch of black hair and a plain, unassuming face. The people surrounding him bow their heads, consumed utterly by despair. I don't understand why at first; he's big, tough, around seventeen or eighteen years old. He could stand a chance. He might be able to protect little Azalea. But then the crowd parts to let him through, and I see he's missing an arm.

The boy – Guff is his name – limps up to the stage. His left arm is completely gone from above the elbow, and his left leg seems jerky and stiff, difficult for him to move freely with. I can only assume he was the victim of some horrific industrial accident.

The escort, still ignoring how put out her captive audience are, indicates that the tributes should shake hands. Azalea sticks out a tiny, chubby hand, her eyes wide and fearful. I swear I see Guff grin at her for a moment as he takes it in his own hand, but then the camera cuts the shot and he's gone.

'That was...' Ragull trails off.

'Yeah,' I say, flatly. 'I know.'

'Riveting discussion you're having there,' Makolai mutters from the back. We both ignore him, and concentrate instead on the TV, as District 9's seal appears.

It's much the same as last time; an escort appears, the glass bowls are wheeled forwards, slips of paper are plucked. Tara and Weeve. Two more tributes, two more victims. They both have ash-coloured skin, and dark hair. Tara's is curly, and cascades elegantly down her back. Weeve's is straight and cut short, into a plain, uniform style. Tara has brilliant green eyes, Weeve has deep blue ones. This all feels so surreal. Part of me is whispering at the back of my head; _these could be the people who end your life._ Could they do that? Tara is fidgety and nervous, Weeve is calm and quiet. Are they killers, really?

Another shot of a handshake, another flash of a camera, another district seal on screen. More establishing shots, this time of lowing cattle and vast spreads of open land. District 10. The pattern repeats once more. Do the people of the Capitol actually understand that these are real, living children they're watching be sentenced to die? Even as I sit here, I find it hard to connect to these people, safe behind the visor of the television. Do the Capitol citizens feel that sense of disconnect from reality, on a much stronger level?

'_Hello!' _says Lisbeth, yet another escort, her happy manner interrupting my train of thought. _'It gives me great pleasure to welcome each and every one of you to the beginning of the 67__th__ Annual Hunger Games!'_

The amassed crowds of District 10, gathered around a hastily erected stage at the centre of a field on the outskirts of town, do not react with the cheer and good nature that Lisbeth might have been expecting. She smoothes out her horrible, mustard-yellow blazer, waiting for an applause that clearly isn't forthcoming. When she realises that nobody is in the mood to celebrate, her fake smile droops a little. She hurries over to the glass bowl that holds the girls names and plucks out a slip of paper, holding it to the light so she can read it.

The unlucky girl is named Nivene. When Lisbeth calls her up, she almost collapses on the spot. I see tears running down the tall, lanky girl's frame as she half walks, half stumbles up to the stage. Lisbeth smiles at her, but Nivene doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes are starting to go red. I feel horrible for watching this; like I'm intruding on something private. She's breaking down, live, in front of millions upon millions of viewers.

Her male counterpart, Brosnan, is surprisingly at ease by comparison. I wouldn't say he looks confident, not by any stretch, but he certainly isn't as openly terrified as she is. He looks relaxed and calm as he steps up to the stage, long hair hanging over his shoulders. He has a pale, gentle face. He offers a hand to Nivene, who grasps it in her own. She's shivering as the two of them shake hands, while the anthem of Panem creaks out of the speakers in the background. Then, sharply, the camera snaps away.

'_Fascinating_ viewing,' Makolai sneers from across the carriage. 'Well, if you'll excuse me, I have paperwork that needs avoiding.'

He shuffles out without another word, pausing in the doorway to shake his head melodramatically in our direction. Ragull catches my eye as soon as our escort leaves.

'What's put him in such a cheerful mood?' He frowns. I can't help but laugh. Ragull's a really funny guy; it's impossible not to like him. He twists his dark ponytail of hair in his hands, a little self-consciously.

'I think we need a new escort,' I say. 'Someone younger. Happier.'

'That's exactly what we _don't_ need,' Ragull shoots back at me. 'One of those light-as-a-feather, rainbow painted Capitol rich kids. No, we should get someone cool, like... What's-his-face. District 4.'

'Sebastian?'

'Exactly!' Ragull's eyes light up. 'With him on our side, District 12 might start to get a little bit more respect.'

I think about that for a moment, then shrug.

'Well, when you get back, you should tell someone that. Maybe they'll hire him.'

Ragull falters, his temporary good nature extinguished by the cold, harsh reality of our situation. He looks at me, and I can't quite meet his eyes this time.

'If I... If I don't get round to it, you could always tell them for me,' he says, dropping his gaze. The mood in the cabin has very quickly taken a downward turn. I nod, a little apprehensively.

'Yeah. If... Yeah, I'll do that. When I come back,' I say. He smiles, though his face is downcast. Neither of us speaks for several minutes. On the TV screen, District 11's reapings are underway, but I'm not paying it much attention and I doubt he is either. Eventually, I say the only thing I can think of that's left to say.

'I'm sorry this happened on your birthday,' I murmur.

'I'm sorry this happened at all.'

* * *

**En route from District 9 – Tara's POV**

Barely visible in the distance, a flash of silver as the sunlight reflects off of something metallic.

'I can't see it,' Weeve says, irritably. I turn my head back to that point on the horizon, where something is glimmering in the new day's sunlight.

'Right there,' I say. He sighs, and leans forward, casting a humourless glance at me with deep blue eyes. But after a moment, I see recognition dawn on his face, and his expression shifts from one of disapproval to one of amazement.

'It's huge,' he whispers. We stare out, together, from the tiny window of our train compartment. Many, many miles away, the tall spire of one of the Capitol's most advanced creations has just come into view, from behind one of the many craggy, jagged mountains that surround the city. For several seconds it's just us and the view, in silence, as we appreciate how tall and sheer the building is, how much effort must have gone into constructing it.

The TV blares behind us, ignored. We've been watching the reaping recaps for ages now, and they're finally coming to an end. District 11's reapings were surprising; both of the tributes looked muscular and determined, as opposed to their usual pair of starved, malnourished children, scared and desolate. Moa, the girl, seemed strong enough, striking a tall figure as she walked up to the stage. Krayth, District 11's male tribute, was even more intimidating, and had been wearing a slightly disconcerting grin on his face throughout the ceremony. By the time the camera had cut to District 12, I was convinced that Krayth was at least a little bit insane.

Now though, as the last two tributes for this year's Games are selected, me and Weeve are ignoring the screen, choosing instead to look out over the miles of barren landscape, of harsh cliffs and steep drops, to the city that houses our executioners. I've tried not to think about the Games too much – every time they enter my head, I can almost feel my final days and hours, draining away from me, like sand from an hourglass. I know that once we arrive in the Capitol, it will be impossible to maintain my delusion, but for now – just for another hour, or less – I can stay peacefully ignorant, not having to worry about the future.

More towers and skyscrapers begin to fade into view, and after another couple of moments the disbelief and astonishment begins to wear thin.

'Well, they're not bad,' Weeve says, slumping back to his low seat, returning his attention to the TV. There's something not quite right about my fellow tribute. When I first met him, on that stage when our names were called, he seemed quiet, almost peaceful. Now, though, there's something different about him. A fire behind his blue eyes that wasn't there before. His posture is stiffer, less like a boy, more like a man. Physically, he hasn't changed at all. But I can tell that something must have happened to him, something big, between the end of the reapings and his arrival at the train station, back at District 9. Maybe while he was in the Justice Building?

On the TV screen, two more tributes have been selected. The final two. The girl's name is Mallura, the boy's Ragull. Mallura looks like a shrew, small and meek, with a thin frame and messy hair. Ragull is rough and wiry, with a short ponytail of black hair tied around at the back of his head. Neither of them could be older than twelve or thirteen.

Their district escort, a foul old man named Makolai, is speaking. _'-fine turnout for this year's Games, eh?' _he says, before laughing hoarsely. There's discontent, and hatred, in that laugh, and I find myself curling up in my seat, playing nervously with my dark hair.

'_Now, happy Hunger Games everyone – and may the odds be ever in your favour!'_

As the recap ends and the screen cuts to an announcer, still smiling merrily, I find myself considering the old man's words. Will the odds be in my favour? Or in Weeve's?

Somehow, I doubt it.

* * *

**En route from District 6 – Jenson's POV**

'We've arrived!' cries Cornelius, ecstatic. His dazzlingly green suit shimmers as he steps into our train carriage. Esther turns to him, head cocked to one side.

'Yeah, we figured that out around the time the train stopped moving,' she says, with a hint of mockery in her voice. Her sarcasm is lost on the jubilant escort, who summons us to his side by frantically waving his hands. 'Finally, back home!' he practically squeals in delight. 'Isn't this just marvellous?'

Esther sighs dramatically – an action which Cornelius either misses or chooses to ignore – and follows him into the next compartment of the train. As she reaches the door, she turns and smiles to me.

'You coming?'

I nod, and hurriedly get to my feet to join her. Cornelius leads us down the colossal train for what seems like a long time. I never realised it had this many carriages. Eventually, we reach a sliding door which opens up to the Capitol's arrival bay. It's a world away from the train station we left behind back in District 6. Even there, the hub of Panem's transport system, the stations are shoddy and unkempt in comparison to the sleek, minimalist design of the building we've arrived in here. Cornelius walks quickly in the direction of a small, innocuous door at the far end of the station, squeaky clean shoes bouncing across the floor. He's practically skipping with delight.

'It's so lovely to be back,' he says, a little breathlessly. I shrug.

'I'm just glad to be off the train. I hate trains,' I mumble. Cornelius smiles.

'Oh, how ironic! Because-'

'No, it's not ironic,' Esther says, cutting him off. 'We spend five or six days a week building, servicing, and taking apart trains. Half of our villages are set up underneath, or next to, railway tracks. A few days ago, I had a dream where I turned _into_ a train.' She rolls her eyes. 'So surprise, surprise, we aren't big fans of stupid bloody trains.'

Cornelius' smile dims slightly. By his standards, this mild decrease in his enthusiasm is the equivalent of a scowl. 'Right. Well. Let's move on, shall we?'

Once we reach the door, he stops us both. Esther folds her arms and waits impatiently. I just push my hands deeper into my pockets.

'Now, I should warn you,' Cornelius says. 'There _might_ be a few photographers outside...'

Esther nods and pushes through the door without another word. I follow, reluctantly, to find-

-The path outside, teeming with paparazzi, journalists shouting, people clawing at each other to get a better look at us. Flashes and flickers of light fill the air. I squirm, frozen to the spot, my eyes on the ground. Then, suddenly, I feel a firm arm grasp my own.

'Come on,' Esther says to me. Her voice is softer than it has been before. She steers me past the crowd, towards the safe, inviting double doors of a tall building less than twenty yards away. Cornelius hurries after us. The blitzkrieg of snapping cameras passes us by, and we walk through the automatic doors into a sterile white room, similar to the one we just left.

'Welcome to the Remake Centre,' Cornelius says grandly, but I ignore him. Esther puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently.

'You don't like crowds, do you?' she whispers. It's a kind voice, not the sarcastic tone she usually uses. I look up at her for a moment, then look down at my feet again. 'I just don't like feeling watched. It's like people are judging me.'

She rubs my shoulder softly. 'You're fine now. We're here. They can't come inside.'

I look up again, and this time I manage to meet her gaze. Her eyes are filled with concern, and I decide immediately that I like this jokey, snarky girl, more than anyone I've ever met.

'Thank you,' I mutter, and then we're whisked away into the depths of the building by Cornelius. He leads us up several flights of stairs, down a narrow corridor, and finally pulls Esther aside, pointing me into a different room across the hallway. We are, of course, going to be prepared in separate facilities, by our own stylists. Esther gives me a quick grin before the door closes behind her, and I'm on my own again.

* * *

**District 10's Prep Room – Nivene's POV**

Lisbeth leads me through one of the endless white corridors that make up this place, the Remake Centre. Brosnan has vanished behind one of the hundred identical doors, ready to be prepped for the opening ceremony. But my stylist is apparently waiting in a different room, so Lisbeth pulls me by the hand through the maze of blank walls. I can't do anything except follow limply behind. Neither of us speaks. Lisbeth's fake enthusiasm has worn a little thin over the past day or so; neither Brosnan or me are very good at holding a conversation, so the long train journey from District 10 was conducted mostly in silence.

Eventually, she stops me outside a door that, as far as I can tell, is an exact replica of every other door in this building. But she must know something I don't, because she knocks confidently and trills 'she's here!'

Almost instantly, the door swings open and three sets of hands dart out and practically drag me into the room. The door closes behind me before I can say goodbye to my escort, and I'm left with three peculiar looking Capitol women looming over me.

'I-I'm...'

'Oh, sweetie, we know who you are!' cries the largest of the three, a plump woman with dyed purple skin. 'Nivene! From District 10! And we are utterly _delighted_ to meet you!'

Without another word, the trio of strange women descend on me and lead me into what I can't help but thinking of as their lair. The room is stocked with cans, tubes and bottles, with scissors and razors and several deep, wide basins filled with an assortment of liquids. They take me to the centre of the room, and the tallest of the three, a stick-thin lady with bleached blonde hair, shoves her face in mine, so that her beak nose is almost pushing against my own.

'We'll start with the face,' she says, in that odd, high Capitol accent. The plump woman, and the small, rainbow-haired lady who completes the trio, both nod enthusiastically.

'Then let's get started!'

Over the next hour or so, the three of them work unendingly on me, plucking my eyebrows, straightening my hair, dabbing a little makeup here and there. I'm told to change into a thin white robe, which I have to slip in and out of constantly as the women preen over me. Eventually, the tall blonde woman snaps her fingers, and all three of them take a step back.

'Perfect!' squeaks the smallest.

'Spectacular!' whistles the largest.

'Adequate,' mutters the tallest.

I find myself utterly confused by my prep team. Are all of the people in the Capitol like this? So flighty and colourful and bizarre? I would open my mouth to ask them something, to start a conversation, perhaps try to better understand them, but my lips quiver and I realise that if I try to speak, I'm going to burst into tears.

Just then, a small section of the wall slides open to reveal a hidden passage, leading to a room I previously wasn't aware existed. The three women turn as one to face the door.

'Gabriel's waiting through there!' says the plump woman excitedly. I nod, not sure how to react, and walk slowly to the new doorway. I pull the soft robe more tightly around me, wishing I had something a bit more substantial to dress in.

The room on the other side of the passage is a lot nicer than the prep room. Three of the walls are blank, but the fourth is made entirely from glass, giving me a perfect view of the shimmering towers of the Capitol. Low, luxurious chairs, similar to the ones on the train, are spaced in a circle at the centre of the room.

In one of the chairs, I can see a man sitting down. He turns as I enter the room, and I see his face has been delicately stencilled with a series of sharp, angular yellow lines. The desired effect may have been to make him look fierce, but it hasn't worked; he has gentle, drooping eyes that make him look more like a friendly rabbit than anything else.

'Come and sit,' he murmurs, his voice soft. I enter cautiously, and choose the seat furthest away from him, so I'm sat directly opposite to him.

'My name is Gabriel,' he almost whispers. 'I'm your stylist.'

I nod, feeling my lip start to quiver again. Gabriel slowly stands up from his chair, and steps over to me; I recoil automatically. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, he moves hesitantly, and crouches down on one knee by my side. His eyes are a deep shade of brown.

'I know how you feel,' he says. 'I really do. There's no need to hide yourself from me.'

I'm not sure if it's the quiet sincerity in his voice, or the genuine look of concern on his stencilled face, but something about the way he says it snaps something inside of me. Instantly, silently, I start to cry.

* * *

**A/N: ****Thank you for reading! Apologies for the slightly late update, but as I've mentioned before, I'm in the middle of my exams. I think I'll be going back to posting new chapters on Saturdays now instead of Fridays. If you liked the story, please let me know by leaving a review (or even if you didn't - constructive criticism is always useful) or perhaps add the story to your alerts or favourites. Thanks!**

**-Alex  
**


	7. Putting On A Show

**A Matter of Perspective:**

**The 67th Annual Hunger Games  
**

_By Alex Smith_**  
**

Chapter 7

Putting On A Show

* * *

**District 8's Prep Room – Azalea's POV**

I don't like it here.

Everything's so blank and clean and empty. It feels like a hospital, or a prison. My district escort left me here, alone except for the trio of stylists. They scare me. They flap around, picking out bottles and creams and soaps, like three witches brewing a cauldron. They treat me like a lump of meat, covering me in vile make-up. When they eventually finish, I'm taken through to another room, but it's just the same as the last. Plain and sterile. A familiar figure stands off to one side, leaning against the wall. Is that...?

'Guff!' I throw myself towards him. He smiles wearily as he returns my hug, wrapping his one huge arm around me. He's like a bear, fierce looking but friendly deep down. He has a tired look on his face.

'Hello, Azalea,' he sighs. I give him a questioning look, but he just nods over my shoulder. I turn to see a towering woman stood over me, hands on her hips.

'So you're the little one, hmm?' she says, in her high, comical Capitol accent. 'Excellent. I'm sure I can work something out for you two.'

She walks like she's standing on stilts, moving quickly but in strange, jaunty motions. I almost laugh, but the noise dies in my throat. I realise my voice is still raw from earlier today, and rub self-consciously at my eyes. Are they still red and puffy? Or have the stylists erased that, as well?

The tall woman strides across the room to where a group of small chairs have been spaced out, and motions to the two of us to take them. I look at Guff, who limps over and chooses the seat furthest away from the woman. I follow his lead; I take the seat next to him, so I'm close enough for him to reach out and pat me comfortingly on the shoulder. I smile weakly, and he returns the gesture.

'So,' says the woman. 'My name is Jessibella, and I'm your stylist. Along with my team, I've reached a decision; the two of you will receive much more press and attention from the public if we present you as a duo.'

Guff makes a questioning noise in his throat. 'Aren't tributes always presented as a duo?'

Jessibella nods. 'Technically. All tributes ride on the same chariots in the opening ceremonies, yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're being presented as a team. Often, they'll be instructed to ignore one another, or given contrasting outfits. Heightens their individuality, so to speak, so that viewers can get a better sense of each tribute as a person, rather than as faceless representatives of their district.'

Guff nods, and sits back in his seat, a thoughtful expression on his face. I just sit silently.

'And you _don't_ want us to do that?' he says.

'Precisely. Your, ah, physical contrasts-' she gestures vaguely to the two of us, first to Guff's bulky build and lopsided figure, then to my own minute frame. '-mean that you'll be very aesthetically pleasing when presented as a pair. Which will of course match very well with District 8's theme of textile production, which is all about making things that look easy on the eye. You understand me?'

Guff laughs hoarsely. 'Good luck trying to make me _aesthetically pleasing_,' he says. Jessibella turns to me, and I nod my head quickly, not trusting myself to try and speak.

'Well then,' Jessibella says. 'Let's move on to the outfits.'

She stands, and we both follow her lead. 'I'll take you through to your separate dressing rooms, and we can get you out of those ghastly robes and into something a little more... Extravagant.'

'Oh, I don't know,' Guff shrugs. 'I'd say these rather suit me.' He flaps the empty left sleeve of his flimsy white jacket – the standard garment worn while tributes are being styled – and chuckles. I smile again, but still don't trust myself with anything more than a wordless noise of amusement.

Jessibella puts a long, slender hand on my shoulder, her claw-like fingernails digging into my skin. I almost cry out from the sudden pain, but she seems oblivious.

'Come with me, dear,' she says, in a tone that might have been an attempt at sounding motherly. She guides me firmly, practically steering me with her hand, towards a discreetly positioned door at the edge of the cold white room. I look back over my shoulder, and catch one more glimpse of Guff, who nods to me as I step through the doorway. Jessibella smiles coldly, mutters 'I'll be back momentarily,' then vanishes back the way we came. This new room, I notice, is just the same as every room in the remake centre I've seen. Empty, plain. Dead.

I don't like it here.

* * *

**The Stables – District 1's Chariot – Heliodore's POV**

'Well? What do you think?' I ask her. She smirks, flashing her white teeth.

'_Fabulous_.'

Jade is clad, from neck to foot, in long tendrils of flowing blue fabric, streamlined down her figure in arcs and curves. The fabric catches the light in such a way that it glitters shockingly, showering the chariot in bright reflection. Miniscule shards of precious stones, rubies and emeralds and crystals, have been sewn into the material. The whole attire gives the impression that she is wearing starlight.

My own outfit is much the same, though I've been dressed in a darker shade of blue. Whilst her dress is the colour of a summer's sky, my suit is more like the deep blue of the sky after sunset. Just like her, I am covered in thousands upon thousands of shimmering gemstones. It's the perfect get-up for our district, in more ways than one. Obviously, we produce jewellery and trinkets, luxury goods for the Capitol and so on, so it makes sense for our parade outfits to conform to that theme. But there's a far more important resonance to our costumes than that. We are District 1; top of the top, best of the best. The elites. The first district to develop the idea of training tributes specifically for participation in the Games, the birthplace of the Careers. It's only fitting, I think, that we're starting off the ceremony in outfits designed to mark us out as diamonds in the rough, quite literally. The cream of the crop. The obvious winners. That's the reputation that coming from District 1 gives you, and I'm going to do my best to live up to it.

The horses in front of our carriage paw impatiently at the ground, ready to set off. Since our district's chariot is the first to ride out and begin the opening ceremony, our horses are used to being let free before everyone else's, and they seem a little fidgety. A Capitol workman barks orders to the stable hands, and they run over, taming the horses by tugging sharply on their reins.

'Well, _they're_ certainly ready to rock!' says our stylist, appearing at Jade's side. She's an odd woman, with shocking pink hair, but I can't deny she did an excellent job on our outfits. She nods to the horses and smiles eerily. 'You two try and be just as enthusiastic, yeah?'

Jade raises an eyebrow, but assents. 'I'll see what I can do,' she says archly. I grin, and nod in agreement.

A cry of alarm from across the room draws my attention; my head snaps up. Jade and our stylist follow the sound as well. The source, as it turns out, is the District 10 chariot. Their horses are rearing up, bellowing angrily, stable hands cowering away in fear of having their skulls caved in by a stray hoof. Even from across the cavernous stable that forms the ground floor of the Remake Centre, I can see the female tribute – Nivene, I think, is her name – cowering away from the animals in terror, refusing to go anywhere near her chariot. The boy, though...

'What's he doing?' says our stylist, gobsmacked. 'Is he insane?'

Brosnan, District 10's male tribute, approaches the angered horses. From this distance, the animals are nothing more than large brown blurs of muscle, but I can just about see Brosnan patting one of the animal's flanks, seemingly oblivious to the creature's wildly flailing (and potentially deadly) front legs.

I see our stylist flinch, expecting the boy to be flung aside by the raging animal. Jade just watches, intently. After a few moments, incredibly, the horse seems to calm down; within seconds its companion follows suit. The crisis averted, Brosnan steps away from the animals, and walks back over to Nivene. I turn to Jade, gobsmacked, and she shrugs.

'District ten,' she mutters. 'They work with animals, so...'

'Yeah, but, I mean, did you see that? He just gave it a pat it froze still!'

Jade frowns momentarily. 'You know,' she says, and the frown dissipates, as an understanding smile spreads across her face, 'I don't think those are horses.'

I'm not sure what she means. 'What-?'

Before I can voice my confusion, a commanding voice calls something incoherent out across the stable, and our stylist jumps up as if burned.

'It's time!' she squeaks. 'Go, go, go!'

The stable hands tending to our horses and chariot vanish, and seconds later we start to move, gathering speed as we roll towards the entrance. Beyond that wide rectangle of light, I know the audiences of Panem await us.

I turn back, catching one last glimpse of District 10's chariot and its calmed horses. Or are they horses? Now that Jade has questioned them, I can't help but shake the feeling that something's off about them. Before the thought can develop, though, we pull out of the stables, and the might-be-horses are lost from view.

I look up, shimmering like a star, as Jade does the same beside me. The crowds of the Capitol face us, and as the cheering starts, I ruffle a hand through my hair and smile beamingly. Time to make an impression.

* * *

**District 4's chariot – Tidhar's POV**

The Capitol's masses scream in jubilation, and I scream along with them.

'Yeah! Alright!' I bellow, punching the air. My every movement seems to send a ripple of energy through the coursing, teeming crowds that line the streets around us. I throw a casual grin, baring my teeth, and the screams reach fever pitch; every camera snaps to me, and I see my own face beaming down at me from the many TV screens mounted above and around us, broadcasting my image live across all of Panem. I let out a whoop of exhilaration, a meaningless cry, that sends the assembled masses over the edge. I hear them chanting; 'District four! District four!' and even more of them, 'Tidhar! Tidhar!' I flex my arms, emphasising my outfit. Bulky and jagged, it looks like a suit of armour – one constructed entirely from shells. The crowds lap up my showmanship, and even as our chariot rushes onwards I turn back to see the audience's eyes fixed on my, arms outstretched, longing for me to return. I've given them one hell of a good show.

Ashua stands at my side, looking sullen, moody. She's deliberately ignoring our stylist's instructions to show as much enthusiasm as possible, and it's a shame. She's letting her own outfit – a silken dress that curves across her form in such a way that it seems to be made from seashells – go to waste, ruining her (and our) image with her practised apathy. When the cameras eventually, reluctantly, move on to District 5's tributes, I drop my waving arms and turn to her.

'Hey, what's the matter with you then?'

She looks to me, and says something back, but her words are lost amongst the roaring of the crowd. I lean in closer to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulder.

'What? Speak up!'

'This just isn't really my thing,' she shrugs. The action emphasises her indifference, and also knocks my arm loose, so that I have to step back and away from her. She pushes a stray strand of brown hair out of her eyes.

'I'd rather we just got straight to the arena. That's what I've been trained for. I haven't been waiting my whole life to volunteer so I can parade around in this freak show.'

I gasp overdramatically. 'This is all part of the Games!' I cry, spreading my arms wide to exaggerate the importance. 'Putting on a show, that's a skill. Just as much as swinging an axe or tossing a spear is.'

She rolls her eyes at me, but says nothing. Doesn't she understand? As we roll onward in the final stretch of our journey, towards the City Circle, I wonder if not everybody here is enjoying themselves as much as I am. I can see the District 3 tributes ahead of us, but only from behind, not enough to gauge their expressions or their emotions. The boy is gripping onto the handrail of his chariot very tightly. Neither of them is waving to the crowds, or at least, not with much vigour or excitement.

I turn around, so I can see the chariot behind us. District 5. Once again, neither of those tributes seem to be relishing the charged atmosphere of the moment, drinking in the elation of the masses, the glory of the parade. The boy is just staring dead ahead, while the girl's eyes dart to and fro like butterflies trapped in a jar.

Do they seriously not get it? Don't they feel happy to be here? This, in my opinion, is as good as life is ever going to get. Me, Tidhar, the boy from District 4, at the centre of attention in a throng of millions. Right here, right now, the people of the Capitol adore me, revere me. Isn't that worth whatever might come next? To be stood here, resplendent in the beam of the world's most intent spotlight? This is what life is supposed to be about. Fame and fortune. And if I win, this will be my life, forever and ever. I grin once more, teeth showing. Not for the audiences this time, just for me. This is how I want to live.

My daydreams of victory are interrupted as every single Capitol citizen in the crowd draws their breath simultaneously. The cameras swivel violently as they turn to view something far behind us. Disorientated, both myself and Ashua look back to the chariots following in our wake, searching for the cause of this sudden turn of events. I look past the District 5 tributes, with their blank, shocked expressions; past District 6, dressed up to look like steam trains; I cast my eye further and further along the narrow road my own chariot travelled down so recently. Eventually, I find the source of the disturbance. District 10's chariot.

Audience members shy away as they thunder past. Atop the gleaming golden carriage, 10's two tributes stand tall. The boy has a look of eerie calm about him, whilst the girl is holding on for dear life. They seem to be gaining on District 9's chariot, directly ahead of them, with unnerving speed. The one thing that draws my attention the most, though, are the horses pulling the chariot. Because they aren't horses.

'Are those _cows_?' Ashua asks, with a combination of stunned disbelief and bemusement. And the weirdest thing is, they are. Two fully grown bull cows, more stampeding that galloping, dragging District 10's chariot along in their wake. A connection snaps in my brain, and I remember. Livestock is District 10's primary output. I laugh, and Ashua looks at me like I'm crazy.

'What's so funny?'

'It's all part of the show,' I chuckle. 'All part of the act. See what I said, hey? Putting on a show, it's a skill. And they know how to use it.'

I get it. District 10 (or at least, their stylist) gets it. It isn't just what you can do in the arena, it's what you can do outside of it. Who you can impress, and how. Making the audience love you, worship you. That's how I'm going to win these Games. Not with fighting prowess – though let me tell you, I've got plenty of that. No, I'm going to win with a smile. Charm my way to victory. Put on a show.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Sorry that it took two weeks for me to write this chapter, but as I've mentioned before, I'm really busy with a lot of other things right now. My last few exams are later this week, so once they're out of the way I should have more free time to write stories and new chapters.**

**On a side note, I've noticed that has added in a feature that lets you give your story a front cover. I've already applied a custom front cover for one of my slightly older stories, a _Doctor Who_ oneshot, but for now all my other stories are stuck with the default image of my profile picture. Rest assured, I will eventually get around to making a custom cover for _A Matter of Perspective_, and all of my other stories, but it might take a while because I'm not sure what I'd want the cover to look like, and obviously new chapters is a bigger priority for me.  
**

**If you enjoyed the story, have any constructive criticism for me, or would like to suggest some ideas for a potential front cover, please do drop me a review. Thank you, and have a nice day.  
**

**-Alex  
**


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